


the manner of your return

by TolkienGirl



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Faramir needs love, Gen, Gondor style, at least he had a great brother, time lapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denethor lives surrounded by shadows. Faramir does not think it strange that he would not want another one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the manner of your return

He is still a child, but he knows his father does not love him.

It is the only thing, Faramir thinks, that his brother does _not_ know. And it is strange, knowing more than Boromir. Boromir is growing into his hands and feet, shedding the awkwardness of boyhood like an ill-fitting cloak.

Boromir walks in the light of a thousand smiles. Boromir never wonders if he is loved.

Faramir would not want him to.

 

His mother’s eyes shone like stars undimmed by sunlight. Faramir remembers that, and the sound of her voice, and the way his father laughed while she still lived.

Faramir did not take her life by his birth, but he took her future. She grew weaker and weaker, and Denethor laughed no longer.

The days grew dark, and then there was one, darkest of all. It pains Faramir to remember that day most clearly. It pains him still that Boromir was so spent by his own grief that he sat with his head on his arms and for once, paid no heed to Faramir.

Faramir sat alone, staring at his father. Searching for an answer in those grim dark eyes.

He found it, even at five, more easily than he wished.

 

The years pass, and Boromir knows. Rarely do they speak of it—the knowledge of it embattles Boromir’s great heart, and Faramir would not have it so.

But when his brother worries—and oh, what would all of Gondor say to know that their warrior-lord worries for his little brother’s troubles?—Faramir longs to tell him the truth. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he can say the words aloud, that he does not blame his father, does not return the coldness and disdain.

For Denethor lives surrounded by shadows. Faramir does not think it strange that he would not want another one.

 

He is a man, and he knows his father does not love him.

Sometimes he can forget it, when Boromir is at his side. Boromir was born to be loved, and fortunate are those upon whom he smiles. He is respected and admired by his followers, feared by his enemies—but few know _his_ love. Faramir knows it, knows the bold heart behind the bold eyes, and thanks his mother’s spirit that one was left true after her death.

(Faramir, after all, is too much like his father. Too cautious and thoughtful, too grave. They do not love themselves. Is it any wonder that they could not wholly love each other?

Or at least, that father could not love son?)

 

When his brother dies, the grief is like a living thing, clutching at his insides. He longs to cast it out, to let it crawl out of his throat, to fling it from him.

And maybe this is how Denethor felt. Maybe he saw the younger son, a paltry offering— _like the shattered horn_ —and cursed him for what he was.

Faramir has no one to hate. In the end, he realizes, he is not so much like Denethor.

He is only himself, silent pain of childhood brightened by his brother’s love, banners flying in the wind and the cool touch of parchment in the citadel’s libraries. He is a soldier. He is a brother. And for all that he is ever the shadow, he longs for the light…even when his brother is gone.  

 

It is Mithrandir who chases him out, who clutches at his reigns. Not Boromir, not at all, but the same words are on his wizard friend’s lips— _he did not mean it._

_Your father loves you, Faramir. He will remember it, before the end._

The arrows find their mark, and he thinks that the end has come.

Pain and blood. The stench of oil and burning. The cries of death and somewhere, the memory of his mother’s voice.

His mother. His brother. His father, too

_Faramir. My son._

The flames spring up, casting long shadows on the stone walls—if it was the shadows he was looking for.

He is a man, he is a child, and he knows his father loves him.


End file.
